


very distant and beautiful and calm

by deathlessaphrodite



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathlessaphrodite/pseuds/deathlessaphrodite
Summary: He’d been trying not to think too hard about the things Martin had said in the Lonely, but things liked to make themselves known when you were trying to fall asleep that were easy to ignore the rest of the time. There was… a lot of stuff to talk about, things that weren’t so easy to ignore in the first place.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Relationship
Comments: 22
Kudos: 182





	1. the worth of things

**_“Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.” -_ ** **Arthur Schopenhauer** , **_Parerga and Paralipomena_ **

It’d taken them far too long to find the little house, and by the time they actually got inside it was very dark and very late and one of the neighbours had come out to ask if they needed any help with anything, which Jon thought was a thinly veiled attempt to find out if they were trying to break in. 

Martin had sent the man away with a few reassuring words and a tired smile. The people around here would like him, Jon could tell. Martin was the kind of person people liked. 

Jon watched him put the chain on the door and then rest his head against the wood for a few moments. He’d passed the point of tiredness where he was annoyed at being tired and crossed into the place where everything is slightly fuzzy and faraway, and it took him a few seconds to realise that staring at someone for that long was weird, and he turned around to find a light switch. 

The house wasn’t as bad as Jon had thought it was going to be, but it did look as though no one had been there for a long time. The light in the living room had no shade over it and the furniture looked directly from the 80s - the couch was a dark, varnished wood, with what had once been very bright sunflowers on the cushions. Jon knew without going upstairs that there would only be one bed. 

Martin finally turned away from the door and came to look over Jon’s shoulder, “At least there’s a couch. And a TV. And a fireplace, until we can get the heating going.” Jon just nodded, and distantly watched Martin carefully setting their bags down on the small coffee table. He snapped himself out of it - _again._ He needed to sleep.

“You take the room upstairs. I’ll be alright down here.” 

Martin gave him that look he gave when Jon said something absurd or self-sacrificing or patently ridiculous, and then said, “ _Jon_ -”

“I mean it. You need the rest. We’ll switch tomorrow, if you’re so worried about it.” 

Martin sighed, too tired to properly argue, “Alright. I’ll find you some blankets.” As he began to head up the stairs, he paused for a moment, head slightly turned towards Jon, not catching his eye. Then he turned away again. 

* * *

Jon, it turned out, was not alright sleeping on the couch. He missed staying at Georgie's, where the couch was not made of wood and there was a cat that would come and sleep with him sometimes. 

He’d been trying not to think too hard about the things Martin had said in the Lonely, but things liked to make themselves known when you were trying to fall asleep that were easy to ignore the rest of the time. There was… a lot of stuff to talk about, things that weren’t so easy to ignore in the first place. 

_I really loved you, you know_ wanted to be talked about more than anything. _Loved._ What did that mean, anyway? Jon had almost worked up the courage to ask about it half a dozen times on the train, but then he’d turned to see Martin pensively staring out the window or down at the newspaper they’d bought and the words would stick in his throat. They’d shared the crossword. That certainly felt like love. 

He thought about Georgie, how desperate he’d been for her help the last time he’d seen her, and how at one point in his life he’d relied on her for help more than anyone. 

It’d been years since he’d thought about it, really. Their relationship had come to a heartbreakingly slow but mutual conclusion. They’d both said some cold, harsh things that had stung tremendously at the time, though Jon couldn’t even clearly remember them now. 

He did remember, absurdly, wanting very badly to be the model example of an ex-boyfriend. He’d gone around their little apartment putting everything that could rightfully be called his (as opposed to _theirs)_ in a box, told her he’d pay his half of the rent for the next couple months, and closed the front door behind him not half as hard as he’d wanted to. Then he’d waited fifteen agonising minutes in the hall for a taxi and spent six years trying to move on, to varying amounts of success. 

Love was a strange beast of a thing. He’d known it was coming for a while, but that hadn’t stopped his heart from breaking a bit when Georgie had finally said _It’s done, Jon._ It hadn’t stopped him from being very bitter about it, for far too long, hadn’t stopped the martyrdom of being the dumpee instead of the dumper coming over him. 

Hindsight had fuzzed over a lot of the memories. It’d been a long time. Things always looked beautiful when you were looking at them from ahead, from the present, where everything was always terrible until you’re looking back on it, and then things evened themselves out, softened, like an old photograph. 

He wanted to stop thinking about it, because it made him sad. There was a memory that always choked him up, that had a kind of cold shock to it that hurt down to his bones. They’d been in their little kitchen, and Jon had been standing over a pan of something - he could never remember what - and Georgie had been dancing to something on the radio. 

It wasn’t a song Jon knew, but Georgie did, or was pretending she did. She wasn’t really dancing, not the kind of dancing she did when they went out clubbing - not that they’d done that for a while, by that point. She was dancing to try and make him laugh, and it was working. She was wearing a jumper that had been his, once, one she’d cold-bloodedly stolen and never returned, and those thick socks that were supposed to come to her knees but that had slid down and bunched up around her calves. He’d laughed at her, fond, and thought: _I am not in love with this woman anymore._ And he’d been very sad, and he hadn’t said anything about it for another six months. 

So when he thinks _it was mutual,_ it's because it was. It had just also hurt, a lot. 

Jon wished Martin would come downstairs and sit with him. He didn’t know if Martin had ever been with anyone for very long. He’d heard about him going on dates, years ago, from Sasha and Tim, but he didn’t know if any of them had gone anywhere. _Obviously they didn't,_ he thought, _if he’s here with you._ He stretched his arms up above his head, trying to breathe evenly and calm his brain down.

He wanted Martin to come and sit at the other end of the terribly uncomfortable couch, for him to be the awake, cheerful, bright Martin that Jon had seen scant glimpses of on the train, while they’d been passing a ballpoint pen back and forth between them and trying to decide if _obduce_ was a word. 

He wondered if Martin was awake, too, if he was staring at the ceiling and thinking too much like Jon was. Jon thought about Martin’s hands. His knuckles were red and cracked, probably from working in an air conditioned office for so long, and Jon wanted to feel them against his lips. He needed to sleep.

What he _needed_ was to talk to Martin, but to make any kind of sense when he did that he needed to sleep first. He turned his face away from the window, where moonlight shone in brighter than Jon had thought possible, tucked his head down and shut his eyes. He thought about Martin, upstairs, warm and safe, asleep, maybe. 

The couch wasn’t so bad, after all. 


	2. by what it remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin turned around when he heard Jon groping around for his glasses, and said, “Good morning!” He sounded more cheerful than Jon had heard him for a long while, “Oh, there they are!” He’d found the glasses, and when he passed them to Jon their fingertips brushed. Stop it, Jon thought, Stop that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- there's a very brief reference to depersonalization; it's only a sentence, and comes right after "beautiful morning"   
> \- also, thanks for reading! <3

**_“Love grows by what it remembers of love.” -_ ** **Alive Together; ‘In the Thriving Season’ by Lisel Mueller**

Jon couldn’t tell which discomfort woke him, exactly: the sun shining through the window directly into his eyes, the cramp in his legs, or the clattering coming from the other side of the room. 

Without his glasses on Martin was just a large, fuzzy shape, but recognizable enough. He was crouched in front of the fireplace, holding what looked like a box of matches. 

He turned around when he heard Jon groping around for his glasses, and said, “Good morning!” He sounded more cheerful than Jon had heard him for a long while, “Oh, there they are!” He’d found the glasses, and when he passed them to Jon their fingertips brushed.  _ Stop it,  _ Jon thought,  _ Stop that.  _

“I came down to make some tea, and it was just freezing, so I thought I’d start the fire going. No clue how you fell asleep down here.” Jon just grunted in response to that, rubbing his eyes, “There’s tea for you, by the way.” And there was, like always. The mugs were a very bright sky blue, “Thought we’d go into the village and get some food, once we’ve woken up a bit.” 

“Sounds good,” Jon said, voice still deep and groggy from sleep. Martin looked at him a moment longer than he needed to, and then turned back to the fire, “How did you sleep?”   
  
“Pretty well. The bed’s comfy.” He sounded faraway again, and Jon didn’t like that. But, God, he didn’t know what to say, “Jon, can I - can I ask you something?” 

He didn’t say anything for a second, caught off guard, “Of course.”

“When we were in the Lonely did I -” He stood, fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper, “I don’t remember everything I said, but…” He stopped again, looking down at his feet and taking in a breath. Jon recognised the feeling of not knowing what to say when you needed to say it. 

“Martin, you don’t - I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Don’t feel like you have to.” Martin looked at him again. Jon could swear he’d never felt as pinned by Martin’s stare as he had recently. Had they ever really looked each other in the eyes, before? Jon had certainly been looking at him, though even he hadn’t known it at the time. 

“I do want to talk about it, it’s just -” He sat down at the other end of the couch rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses, “It’s all mixed up and foggy. I don’t know what I said and what I didn’t.” Jon felt strangely vulnerable, blankets around his waist and bare feet very close to Martin’s clothed thigh. He supposed it was the season for vulnerability. 

“You - you were very disoriented. You said some - some things.”  _ Good God, man,  _ he thought,  _ Spit it out. It’s not that hard,  _ “You said you loved me. That’s what - you said that.”

Martin made a noise somewhere between despair and embarrassment and resignation and tipped his head back until it clunked against the wooden back of the sofa, “I thought I did.” Then he righted his glasses, sitting up, “Well, Jon, I - don’t think -” He sucked in a breath, and continued, voice steady, “It doesn’t need to mean anything. All things considered, I’d - I’d like to forget about it.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to -” The words were out of him before he even knew what he was saying, “I don’t want to forget about it. I want to -” He tried to calm himself down, to steady his breathing, “I care about you, Martin, a lot. I don’t know if that’s strong enough, really, for what I mean, but -” He shuffled himself forward a bit, almost reaching out but not quite, “I don’t want to forget about it.” 

Martin looked at Jon, eyes wide, and then down at his hands, and didn’t say anything for far too long.

“I’m sorry if I’m late,” Jon said, quietly. The silence was heavy, but not… oppressive. It was thoughtful. 

“You’re not late,” Martin was looking at him again, voice quiet, like he was worried if he spoke any louder he’d cry, “I just -” He sighed, “God, why can’t things be simple? For once?”   
  
“It could be simple. Maybe… maybe it could be simple.” He knew he sounded desperate, and he didn’t care. Martin’s fingers twitched towards his. 

“Jon, I do…” He looked near tears, cheeks and the tips of his ears pink, “I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” Jon said. His hand had found it’s way to Martin’s chest, resting just under his collarbone. He didn’t want to draw away. Martin was very warm and his jumper was very soft and he was  _ Martin  _ and Jon wanted to keep touching him, “It’s okay. Let’s go to the village, like you said. Just let me get dressed.” 

And then he slipped from the couch into the bathroom, gathering some clothes along the way. Once he was in there he shut the door behind him gently, and took a deep, steadying breath. He splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth and tried to make himself look halfway presentable, and then promised himself that the goal was  _ not  _ to make Martin cry. At least for the rest of the day. 

* * *

Jon had forgotten how frustrating living in a small village could be. Everyone wanted to talk to you all the time, and they didn’t have any oat milk in the shop. 

“It’s just mad that apparently no one in the whole village is lactose intolerant, that’s all,” Martin said. He’d been very obviously trying to keep their minds off their previous conversation, chattering away about something or other with a nervousness that was putting Jon on edge. It reminded Jon a bit of the very early days, when Martin had first come to the Archives. It was amazing to Jon, still, how someone could be so easy-going and so tense at the same time. 

“Oh, look!” Martin said, pointing with the hand that wasn’t holding the shopping, “Cows!” He went up to the fence, stopping just short, “Hello!” 

“We must’ve missed them last night.” Jon went to stand beside him, leaving what felt like a great depth of space between them. The mist was coming down from the mountains, making the sky glow golden from the sun. 

Martin leaned forward a little, hand on the fence post. He ground his teeth for a moment - a habit that would’ve driven Jon mad a few years ago - and then made up his mind to speak, “I really missed you, Jon. When you were in your coma, obviously, but - afterwards, too.” __

Jon could feel the damp from the mist gathering in his hair. He looked out at the field. Nearby, a cow mooed, “You know, when Georgie and I broke up, I - I realised that I hadn’t made my own breakfast for about two years. She used to get up first and make me toast. I never thought about it. I don’t think she thought about it, either, it was just a thing she did,” He risked a look at Martin, who was looking at him, clearly unsure of where this was going, “What I mean is - you don’t notice sometimes the things people do for you until they’re not doing them anymore. Do you know you made me tea every morning for - what, two years?” 

He heard Martin huff a slightly bitter laugh, “Of course, you know. But I - I missed you, too, is what I’m trying to say.” Jon turned to him, properly looking at him, taking him in, “I missed talking to you. And seeing you. I missed - seeing your very neat handwriting on paperwork. I missed you.” 

Martin sighed, and looked down at the ground. He looked - torn about something for a second, but then he smiled. A real smile, a proper Martin smile, “Jon… you know I love you. You know it. It’s just…”

“I know it.” His voice came out too quiet, the wind almost threatening to carry it away, “I love you, too, you know. You have to know, after everything.” 

Martin looked at him, and Jon looked back at Martin, and they just looked at each other for a moment. And then Martin put his arm out and pulled Jon closer and they stood for a moment, almost nose to nose. Jon brought his hand up and traced the bottom row of Martin’s eyelashes with the tip of his finger. He’d wanted to do that for a while. Jon realised that maybe he’d wanted all of it for a while, for longer than he’d thought. 

“I love you, you know.” He said, again. He couldn’t help it. 

“You’ve said,” Martin’s voice was quiet, teasing but warm. Just for him. He let his arms wrap around Martin’s neck, even though he had to stand up on his tiptoes to do it, and felt Martin’s very large hands on his hips, and then he was being very thoroughly kissed. Martin was so  _ warm,  _ he thought, from his hands to his voice to - well, to his  _ mouth,  _ which Jon found himself wanting to become much more familiar with all of a sudden. 

He was here, he thought, being kissed very well by this man that he loved, in this beautiful place on this beautiful morning. He felt like he was living in his own body for the first time in a long time. __

Eventually, Martin drew away, and their breath fogged together in the air. He put his head down on Martin’s chest, where he could hear his heart beating as quickly as Jon’s own, and looked at the orange sun coming through the mist. Martin put his hand on the back of Jon’s neck, heavy and warm, and mumbled something into the top of his head. Jon couldn’t hear it exactly, but he could guess at what it was. He smiled, and thought,  _ This is it, this is it.  _

* * *

The kitchen was warm and bright, the sun coming in through the small window, which looks out onto the calm road in front of the house. A car passed, every now and then, sometimes a farmer walking their dog. Mostly it was quiet, except for their talking. 

“Apparently,” Martin said, rolling an egg on the counter until the shell began to crack, “This is supposed to stop you from getting any shell in the pan. But look!” He pointed at a large piece of shell that had, indeed, gone into the pan with the egg, “Doesn’t work. The internet lies, Jon.” 

Jon huffed a laugh, watching Martin pick the shell out and flick it onto the counter, “Shocker.” He said, earning himself a poke with the back end of a spatula. Things felt light, they felt easy and happy, but they also felt real. It didn’t feel like a dream. 

He wrapped his arms around Martin’s middle, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. Martin made a shocked little sound, and said, “Watch your hands,” taking Jon’s in his own and holding them away from the stove. Jon breathed in the smell of the orange-eucalyptus body wash they’d bought, of whatever washing powder Martin used, of  _ Martin.  _ He smelled warm. Jon felt himself make a contented noise, and then the inhale-exhale of Martin huffing a laugh, “C’mon,” Martin said, eventually, “Let’s eat.” 

* * *

Jon knew at some point he’d get sick of having nothing to do, but right then it felt like a blessing. 

Once he’d manage to pry himself away from Martin, he’d showered, letting the hot water warm the cold that’d crept into him from outside, and now he was standing in the hallway watching Martin watch the news. It was strange, he thought, how he’d never really taken the time to look at him before. He looked tired, his feet tucked under him and his head tipped back against the back of the couch. The fire had started to die down, and Jon made up his mind to go over and stoke it.

Martin startled when Jon entered the room, clearly half asleep, “Sorry,” Jon murmured, and Martin smiled back at him tiredly. 

Once he’d poked at the fire some, Jon went over and settled himself on the floor, leaning back where Martin’s legs would be if he didn’t have them tucked up under him. The silence buzzed with something. Martin’s hand came down and tugged gently at the part of Jon’s hair that always stuck up like a car antenna. The action was practiced in a casual way, like Martin had been thinking about doing it for a while. Jon tipped his head back so he was looking up at him.

Martin was smiling again, looking flushed and warm and as shy as Jon felt, “Hello,” He said, poking at Jon’s cheek, “Isn’t it cold down there?”

“A bit.”

“C’mere.” Jon pulled himself up and into the space next to Martin, huddling close. He wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist, and Martin made a small, happy sound that Jon could feel vibrate through his chest. 

“I’m so lucky,” He said, before he could stop himself, “I’m so lucky you came here with me.”

Martin’s laugh ruffled the hair at the top of Jon’s head, “I’d say that I’m the lucky one, but we could go around in that circle for hours, I think.” Jon laughed, too, and let his eyes close. 

He knew, logically, that there were things he needed to be doing, terrible things that needed his attention, conversations to be had. But he let himself rest, for the moment. Because he knew he could, and that Martin would let him, that Martin would let him stay here for as long as he needed. And they could rest together, for a while. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a letter from Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, c.1927. Beta by [faridsgwi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faridsgwi)
> 
> Please feel free to comment!


End file.
